


I Feel Alive

by captainskellington



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Piningjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s distracted by the appearance of a glass tumbler that slides to rest by his left hand. He raises his gaze and smiles fondly at the sight that greets him.<br/>Okay, so maybe the atmosphere isn’t the only reason he comes here."</p><p>Enjolras has a crush on a bartender who keeps giving him free drinks.<br/>He doesn't even know his name.<br/>Yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Feel Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Stars_inyourmultitudes -- thanks again! (That would be linked if I knew how to do that.)  
> Also: title is a lyric from the song Barlights by fun..  
> That has no bearing whatsoever on the fic, I just got it stuck in my head around 500 words in and decided to go with it.

When it all comes down to it, Enjolras simply likes background noise when he works. Not organised noise like music or movies, but the milling, unpredictable rise and fall of crowds of real life, everyday people. He can’t concentrate without people, they’re who he works for, who he lives for, so it only makes sense that he needs their distant voices to be the backing track for his life.

That’s why he’s always liked having meetings in the cafe instead of a more private place such as his own apartment, why he likes speaking at and participating in rallies. He lives and breathes humanity, the constant thrum of activity and sound they produce, voices coming together to cry out in their defense, for their betterment, or even just enjoyment.

That’s also why, when he needs to work, he comes to this bar. He casts his eyes around now, turning in his stool and drinking in the sight of the people around him. He doesn’t know any of them but then, he doesn’t need to; they’re alive and they’re speaking, voices ranging from muffled whispers to raucous shouts, and that’s all he needs from them.

He returns to writing his paper with fresh vigour, an unabashed grin on his face, letting the noise wash over him and guide his hands to move freely across the keyboard of his laptop propped up on the bar, straying occasionally to note something down in pen on a physical notepad.

Some time passes, and then he’s distracted by the appearance of a glass tumbler that slides to rest by his left hand. He raises his gaze and smiles fondly at the sight that greets him.

Okay, so maybe the atmosphere isn’t the only reason he comes here.

“You know I don’t drink,” he tells the bartender. The one with messy curls of hair the colour of coal that would probably reach well below his shoulders if he ever had it loose, the one with tattoos snaking up his arms in twists and whorls to under his sleeves and just peek above the collar of his shirt, the one with icy blue eyes streaked with whirls the colour of a stormy ocean. The one whose voice makes Enjolras’ breath catch in his throat, makes his grin come that much easier, whose own grin is lopsided and beautiful, whose laugh makes Enjolras’ heart flutter in his chest like the wings of a trapped bird.

The one who makes all other background noise fade out, replaces it; Enjolras doesn’t need it when he’s there.

The one who, despite his protestations, just won’t stop pouring Enjolras drinks.

“And _you_ know,” he replies, voice warm and eyes twinkling with amusement. “That you have to actually have a _drink_ to sit here.” He indicates the bartop and the laptop and papers spread across it.

Out of curiosity Enjolras raises the glass to sniff at the contents, as the bartender tries to read his notes upside down. Enjolras wrinkles his nose. _Brandy. No, thank you._

“Work or play?” he asks. Enjolras ignores the gentle dig likening his activism to a child’s hobby and sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back to stretch in his stool.

“Work,” he says eventually, settling back into his seat and reopening his eyes. The bartender’s gaze flickers up to meet his and he leans forward, arms crossed, elbows braced on the bar.

“Is it _ever_ play with you?” he smirks, and Enjolras feels himself drawn closer, as if pulled by a magnet.

“It can be,” Enjolras tilts his chin up defiantly and rests it on his hand, eyes never leaving the other man’s. It’s almost a challenge. No, strike that, it’s definitely a challenge. And judging by the answering flicker of light in the bartender’s eyes, he thinks so too. Is this flirting?

He doesn’t get to find out, because the bartender gets called away to serve drinks to an actual paying customer - not that Enjolras doesn’t know he’ll be back in a few minutes anyway. That’s just how they interact: Enjolras works, bartender passes him random drinks so he won’t get removed, everything feels strangely intense and flirtatious, bartender has to do his job, bartender returns to continue chatting, then at the end of the night refuses to take money for the drinks Enjolras didn’t even order in the first place. That’s how it’s been going on for almost a year, ever since he started studying here.

Never once has the bartender mentioned his name.

He’s interrupted from his thoughts when a tall, slender apparition of a man slides neatly into the stool directly beside him, despite - and Enjolras checks - the fact that nearly every other seat in the place is empty, and the surface in front of the guy is littered with Enjolras’ papers.

“Sorry, let me move those,” he isn’t naive, he knows what the guy’s after - and okay, that once-over he’s getting is suggestive bordering on predatory, and it’s making him a little uncomfortable - but he’s mannerly if nothing else.

“Not a problem,” the man purrs. And he’s by no means bad-looking; hell, if Courfeyrac were here he’d be all over the guy. He just isn’t Enjolras’ type. So he has his answer ready prepared for when he next speaks.

“Come here often?”

Enjolras has to fight not to roll his eyes -- that isn’t even a _good_ one -- but, no matter. “I’m straight, sorry.”

The guy is gracious about it, simply nodding and saying “fair enough” before slipping away to go seek fun elsewhere. Enjolras almost feels bad for how easy the lie comes out, but he’s so used to unwanted advances that it’s easier to make them think they have no chance than to leave room for persuasion. He isn’t stupid, he knows he’s incredibly attractive, and he also knows that a simple “I’m not interested” doesn’t cut it for a disheartening proportion of adults; be they male, female, or otherwise gendered. So he tells the guys he’s straight, and to the girls he’s gay. That way there’s no hard feelings, long uncomfortable conversations, and time wasted talking to people he is honestly not interested in, at all.

 _Speaking of people you’re interested in_ , something in his head mutters when he turns back to the bar. His friend is standing there with his eyebrows raised and an unreadable expression on his face.

“Not keen?” his voice sounds unsure, somehow.

Enjolras shakes his head. “Not my type,” he replies, trying to get across in those three words that his type is, in fact, beautiful tattooed bartenders with wild hair and incredible eyes who make intelligent conversation and give him free - albeit unwanted - drinks.

“Shame,” he mutters, and Enjolras frowns, because that tone makes him think he’s not referring to the guy who just got turned down -- and if that’s the case, what is he talking about?

But before he can ask him, he’s turned and headed off to the other end of the bar. Enjolras tries to catch his eye but he seems to be studiously avoiding his gaze, keeping occupied and striking up conversation with one of the other customers.

He doesn’t come back over.

After another ten minutes of attempting to work but actually watching the bartender and trying to figure out what he did wrong, Enjolras admits defeat and starts packing up his things with a sigh. He rummages in his wallet and leaves a note under his untouched tumbler - probably more than it’s worth, but then this is the first time he’s ever actually paid for a drink here - then heads out.

The bartender’s gaze stays down while he passes by, and Enjolras can’t help but feel a little hurt.

* * *

The next time he’s there, it’s a few days later and he’s determined to get his head down and work; not to be distracted by his confused feelings towards the bartender. He doesn’t even look to see if he’s working as he enters, just heads straight to his usual spot right at the far end of the bar and settles down. This paper is kicking his ass, and he just can’t get the introduction nailed down.

Half an hour in, he’s tackled it from no less than six different angles and deleted each and every one, written two later paragraphs from his vague outline, and has now opened up a new document and is typing **fuck school fuck school fuck school fuck school** over and over again in size 28 font. It’s a lot more satisfying than he would have expected.

There’s a snort behind him and he whirls around, caught off guard.

“That bad, huh?” It’s the bartender, plucking glasses off a recently vacated table and wiping it down. He nods at the laptop as if there’s any confusion over what he was referring to, and Enjolras doesn’t answer for a moment. Partially because he’s hesitant to speak in case he scares the guy off again, for whatever reason, and partially because he can’t quite figure out just how he’s managing to hold _that_ many bottles and glasses in one hand, what the hell.

He shrugs in lieu of an actual answer, and turns back to his laptop. He clicks back into his actual paper and tries to ignore the bartender and return to his introduction. He’s so successful in this that he doesn’t realise the guy is back behind the bar and standing in front of him until he tugs the laptop around to face him.

“Hey--” Enjolras starts to protest feebly, but the guy holds up a hand to silence him. Lips moving slightly and eyes darting from left to right, he reads both the essay plan and Enjolras’ half-hearted seventh attempt at an introduction, brow furrowed in concentration, and wow does Enjolras want to kiss that expression off of his face.

Then he’s typing, fingers flying across the keyboard at frantic speed, and after a couple of minutes of this he returns the laptop to its owner and wordlessly leaves him to it, having neglected his other customers for the last five, ten minutes -- maybe more, Enjolras has been a little distracted. He drags his eyes away from the man to glance at what he’s written, and goes a little weak at the knees.

Because not only is this guy attractive and witty as all hell, he’s _intelligent_ too. The introduction he’s churned out in under a half hour is easily five times as good as anything Enjolras has taken the last week to write. He stares at the man unnoticed for a few moments. It might actually be more accurate to say _gapes,_ because he’s pretty sure his face is doing some highly unattractive dumbfounded thing right now, but he really can’t bring himself to care, and -- oh hell, he might have just fallen in love.

Flustered by that realisation, he packs up and leaves before he can even get passed a free drink.

He leaves so fast that he doesn’t notice the guy’s eyes following him all the way out.

* * *

Enjolras doesn’t return for another week. The only reason he comes back at all, in fact, is because Courfeyrac swears on every fibre in his tiny, exuberant being that he will suffer greatly if he doesn’t. Firstly because the regret from never seeing this guy again would most likely be unbearable, and secondly because if he had to hear Enjolras mope over the guy one more time he was going to _murder_ him.

Said tiny, exuberant being currently has his hands firmly anchored on Enjolras’ back and is shoving him towards his usual seat with the strict instructions that he is not to leave until he at least gets a name from the guy.

He looks at him firmly for a moment before saying “Enjolras, I love you. But please, man up and _do_ something before _I_ do,” and then he disappears to do whatever it is Courfeyrac does in crowded bars. Probably _mingle,_ Enjolras thinks with a shudder.

Hey, he likes people, that’s already been established; but like hell is he a _mingler._

With Courfeyrac gone, Enjolras realises just how lost he is without his laptop to distract him. He tries to allow the usually soothing thrum of noise to wash over him; lets his gaze wander through the crowd for a while, noting how it’s much busier than normal, the people so numerous that he honestly can’t find Courfeyrac anymore. It’s actually pretty lucky that his normal seat is free, almost all the other barstools are filled.

When he turns to face the bar, he nearly falls off of said seat, because there’s suddenly a girl beside him. She’s pretty, with long blond hair and pale, freckled skin, green eyes framed with thick lashes, dressed in a floral skirt and baggy pastel sweatshirt. And she has that look that says she finds him pretty, too.

And, god, Enjolras is jumpy, because as soon as she opens her mouth he blurts out “I’m gay, sorry”. She looks surprised for a moment, but then laughs it off goodnaturedly, shaking her head as she does. Then she picks up her drink and heads over to a table nearby, presumably seating her friends. At least Enjolras doesn’t feel guilty for lying -- this time it was more truthful, preference-wise.

Then he turns back to the bar and his heart leaps in his chest, because his bartender is there, looking incredibly, endearingly confused.

“Hi,” he says, nervously, when the bartender doesn’t speak. He shakes his head a little and his customary grin snaps onto his face, but his eyes still spark with confusion.

“Hey there,” he says, slowly. “Can I get you something?”

“Surprise me,” Enjolras replies, and the guy steps back to do just that, fetching him a tumbler and pouring something into it with his back turned so Enjolras can’t see.

“On the house,” he says as he sets it down in front of him, and this time Enjolras doesn’t protest. He watches with a bewildered expression as Enjolras tips it back and takes a sip, wincing a little as the liquid hits his throat.

Whiskey. Alright, then.

He sets the glass back on the table and turns it between his fingers, waiting for the burn to dissipate, all too aware of the eyes on him, trying to work out how to ask the guy what his damn name is, _and why is this so hard?_

“Can I just,” the bartender asks, and Enjolras looks up. The guy swallows. “Okay, stop me if I’m out of line here, but you… That guy, the other week, you said you were straight, but just now with that girl-” he pauses, unsure how to phrase his question politely.

Enjolras blushes, because he hadn’t realised he’d picked up on that. “No, I just, uh. That was just to make them leave me alone, really. I’m pansexual with a leaning towards the… Uh. More, um, gay side of things.” _Eloquently put by one of the best speakers of your graduating class,_ something snide whispers in the back of his head. He ignores it.

Eyes lowered, he doesn’t notice the hopeful look that flashes across the bartender’s face. “So when you said he ‘ _wasn’t your type_ ’, you didn’t mean it was because he was a guy?”

Enjolras frowns and looks up. “No, I meant-” he hesitates. Moment of truth, Enjolras. “He just wasn’t… Isn’t what I’m into,” he finishes, lamely. And he could kick himself for letting that perfect opportunity slide, he really could, if he thought he had the coordination to do it without falling off the stool.

“Right,” the bartender says, gaze unfocused. “But, I mean, both of them were easily the best looking people in this place. Like, okay, he was maybe a 7 or a low 8, and I’d make a guess at her being a 9 at least, and you just - turned them down?”

And Enjolras refuses to let another chance slip past him, so he steels himself, taking a deep breath and setting his shoulders before he speaks, gaze locked firmly on the glass between his fingers.

“Well, I mean - yeah, I turned them down. You go to this bar and get served by a 10 for an entire year - hell, get _free drinks_ from a 10 the entire year - you’re hardly going to settle for an 8 or a 9, are you?”

He can feel his cheeks burning, and risks a glance up only to find the guy staring at him, gobsmacked. His eyes are _glowing,_ and after a moment a blindingly radiant grin flashes across his face. He clears his throat and rolls his sleeves up, Enjolras’ eyes snag on the tattoos, then offers his right hand to shake. Enjolras takes it, an almost electric thrill shooting through him as he does so.

“I’m Grantaire. I think there was some misunderstanding on my part. Also; gay as a rainbow, in case you were interested.”

“Oh, consider me _incredibly_ interested.” Enjolras says, after letting out a relatively embarrassing laugh. But he can’t bring himself to care when the grip on his hand shifts and Grantaire laces their fingers together. “I’m Enjolras.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs, gaze drifting to rest on their linked hands, and the way he rolls the syllables around his mouth sends a warm jolt through Enjolras’ system. He glances back up, almost shyly. “Would you be amenable to my kissing you?”

“Most definitely,” Enjolras breathes, heart beating out a staccato rhythm in his chest. Grantaire leans over the bar, then, and they meet in the middle, and his lips are soft and the kiss is gentle and Enjolras sighs when they part. They stay that way for a moment, foreheads leaning against each other, then Grantaire presses another swift, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth and pulls back.

He looks down the length of the bar and sighs. “I have to work…” he trails off, his words almost pained in their regret. Enjolras squeezes his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” his smile holds a promise, and Grantaire seems to read it there, his own answering grin crooked. He raises their joined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of Enjolras’.

“You better not,” he replies, then drifts away to serve another customer, only letting go of Enjolras when they just can’t reach each other any more, and sending him a wistful look as he does. Enjolras is left reaching his hand over the bar, and he withdraws it slowly, expression dreamy and light, fluttering butterflies rampant in his stomach as the soothing tempest of background noise washes over him once more.

He glances back into the crowd and is mildly surprised to immediately catch Courfeyrac’s eye, who must have seen everything because he just flashes him a grin and raises his -- or the guy next to him’s -- glass in salute. And Enjolras does a double-take, because that’s the guy from the other week -- apparently he was right about him being Courfeyrac’s type -- and he sees him looking and grimaces apologetically, in reply to which Enjolras just laughs and shakes his head. Coincidentally, they’re also at the table the pretty blond girl disappeared to earlier in the night.

 _It’s a funny little world,_ he thinks, turning back to watch Grantaire only to find he himself is being watched.

The background noise fades out some, and he’s left thinking again about just how beautiful humanity is.

He smiles at this particularly beautiful piece before him.

It’s returned.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, a few things here.
> 
> 1\. I've never been in a bar. Is that obvious?  
> 2\. I imagined Enjolras as resembling Tveit in the movie, and Grantaire as Blagden as he is in the video of his cover for I Will Follow You Into The Dark... But with tattoos.  
> 3\. If you want to think the guy and girl mentioned are Jehan and Cosette, go ahead. You might be right. They weren't supposed to be, but maybe my inner Courf/Jehan shipper ran away with it a little. Who knows.  
> 4\. I wrote this while watching From Up On Poppy Hill and then later while starting Graceland. This has no relevance whatsoever, I just want to recommend FUOPH to you all. And say, don't watch Graceland. Don't. You think you can handle that much Aaron? You're wrong. You're so, so wrong.  
> 5\. It was finished at 6am. Yeah.  
> 6\. I imagined Courfeyrac as he is in apollocomic, but like. Incredibly short. Do not ask me why.  
> 7\. Oh, and if you didn't know -- when they're referring to numbers, they're rating overall attractiveness on a scale of one to 10. Which is kind of dumb, and I'm pretty sure they wouldn't actually do, but whatever. They're not good at talking feelings, just go with it.  
> 8\. As always, I am Tumblr user [cityelf](http://cityelf.tumblr.com) and Twitter user [@iamagogimaghost](http://twitter.com/iamagogimaghost) and you should drop me a message somewhere.


End file.
